


Within an Inch of Your Life

by aurics



Series: Dimiclaude Birthday Week 2020 [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mentions of reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25940101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurics/pseuds/aurics
Summary: Claude is standing tall, and in the shadows he casts Dimitri catches glimpses of Claude as a leader, marching his troops to battle. When he closes his eyes he hears the cries of battalions, and for a split second he sees the ghost of a creature's wings when Claude swings his hand to point upwards.And then he starts dancing.(Dimitri goes on a desert safari with his friends, not expecting to see the phantoms of a familiar face in their local guide, Claude.)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Series: Dimiclaude Birthday Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882636
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	Within an Inch of Your Life

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 Prompt: Day & Night, Stargazing and Ocean (very briefly...)
> 
> Some notes about this fic:  
> ✧ Dimitri has both his eyes  
> ✧ I wrote this with the units' post-timeskip design in mind!  
> ✧ Claude is characterised as Arab here, as his real name 'Khalid' is Arabic in origin and I wanted to stay true to that!  
> ✧ My intention was to give male belly-dancers the recognition they deserve for their art in this fic! I hope it comes across well [sweats]

“Stop staring and go talk to him, creep.”

These are the very first words Felix has said to him today. The pair has pathetically retreated to the open boot of the four-wheeler, where the icebox is kept and shade is aplenty. Their team had planned this desert safari company retreat over the winter precisely to avoid such scorching heat, but apparently a Middle Eastern winter is just closer to ‘an outdoor sauna' than ‘the depths of hell’ on a heat spectrum. 

While both look like they're about to suffer from hyperthermia, Dimitri spies their friends boarding down the sand dunes like it's not hitting above 35-degrees Celcius and the ground is cool marble rather than scorching sand. Even Mercedes, who had looked bothered by the heat at first, seems over it and is excitedly splashing around in the small stretch of beach the party had come across with Annette. 

Dimitri envies their adaptability, if only so he could escape from Felix’s sharp gaze.

“And who might you be referring to?” replies Dimitri, tearing his gaze away from a certain laughing tour guide-slash-instructor named Claude to play dumb.

“Don’t play dumb, you’re stupid enough as it is,” scowls Felix. He pauses to chug at the bottle of iced water in his hand, pressing it to one scarlet cheek before continuing, “Our sandboarding instructor has eyes too. You’re not as stealthy as you think.”

Dimitri is going to suffer from actual heatstroke if he doesn’t control his blushing. “I'm simply admiring his sandboarding abilities. It looks like a difficult sport to master, but he does it very effortlessly.” 

This part, at least, is true. From his observations of Ashe struggling to even stay on his feet the entire time, Dedue breaking two boards, and Sylvain outright falling over on his face to tumble down the incline in his every attempt despite the co-instructor Leonie’s reliable advice, Dimitri knows it’s a sport to be reckoned with.

“Save your excuses, you were staring before we even started sandboarding.” 

“I-I was not! I was listening to the information about the—“ 

Felix scoffs, hopping down from the open trunk of the four-wheeler and adjusting the hat on his head that is doing very little to keep the desert sun out. “Sure, whatever,” he says before walking away just as Dimitri spies Claude sauntering over towards them, alone for once.

“Wait—Felix!“ 

Too late—Felix is out of earshot in seconds and now Dimitri is left panicking about Claude’s ever-nearing presence. 

“You okay there, Mr. Blaiddyd?” 

Dimitri tries not to visibly jump at the sound of his voice, instead plastering on a smile that he hopes looks less like a wince. “Ah—please, call me Dimitri,” he says. “And yes, very much so. I know it doesn’t look like I am, but it’s just… I am not used to the heat.” 

“Great, I did _not_ like calling you that, either,” Claude laughs. “Yeah, even in December the afternoons can be super relentless. No switching off the sun around here.” 

Looking at Claude grinning, all tanned skin and beads of sweat trailing down the side of his face, Dimitri feels a welcome lump in his throat that makes him smile a little. For some reason seeing Claude feels new, but familiar at the same time, in a way that makes Dimitri crave the sight of him just to make sure he isn't imagining things. He nearly yelps when Claude reaches over his lap to grab a drink from the icebox, but manages to keep the reaction to a sharp intake of breath. “I suppose not,” he coughs out.

“So, how are you liking the desert safari so far?” 

“It’s been absolutely delightful.” And it has been, truly—Dimitri isn’t saying it just to sweet-talk Claude. “If i’m being honest, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to see on this trip, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised.”

Claude laughs, settling in beside him in the four-wheeler’s boot. “Thought you’d see nothing but sand, right? Don’t worry, lots of people think the same on their first trip.” 

“You could say that,” Dimitri admits, bowing his head if only to keep his line of gaze away from Claude’s smile, far too close for Dimitri to keep his cool—literally and figuratively. “That Transformers filming site you took us to, it was incredibly enchanting. Cradled by high, rocky cliffs like that, acting as a fortress against unknown enemies or even sandstorms. It was like an ancient lost city…”

“That’s because it _is_ one!” 

“I’ve never seen structures like them before.”

“If you and your friends are interested, there’s a real sweet spot a little bit farther up north. There’s a whole ancient fortress city preserved there, and lots of archeologists have been working around the site for a decade or so uncovering lots of little artefacts and ancient trinkets.” 

Dimitri perks up—recovering ancient artefacts is an admittedly nerdy fascination of his, so far removed from corporate goals that are all about innovation, efficiency and advancements. “An active archaeological site? That's wonderful.” 

“Yeah. They're usually open to having visitors and talking to them about it, too—I bet they get kind of lonely, up north by themselves like that.” 

“Do you happen to have another excursion to this site?” 

Claude pauses, looking at him sidelong curiously. “Yeah, we do—but that wasn’t a line trying to get you to book another trip with us, by the way. I was genuinely offering a friendly tourist tip.” 

“Oh, no, I know, I just—“ What? _Wanted to spend more time with you?_ Dimitri’s known this guy for all of six hours and a line like that would be intensely inappropriate to say aloud, no matter how truthful the sentiment. 

(It hasn't felt like just six hours to Dimitri, though. Somehow, deep in his bones, it feels like it's been many, many years spent in each other's company, and in far closer proximity.)

“I get it.” Claude, not for the first time, saves Dimitri from himself. “It’s easier once you know someone, right?”

“Yeah,” Dimitri sighs, relieved. “Exactly, that’s it.” 

Leaning on the vehicle’s wall, Claude asks, “Sure you wouldn’t get tired of the desert already? Staying overnight—most people would’ve had their fill by then.”

“Not at all. On the contrary I feel as though it’s still barely enough time. I want to see more—more of nature, and perhaps ancient cities lost to time.” Their vacation isn’t very long, due to the nature of Dimitri's crucial position, and he's had to convince everyone that the overnight trip would be worth taking two full days out of their itinerary. Only now does he realise he was right, but simultaneously incorrect in thinking it would be enough. He sighs. “I wonder how they must have lived back then…”

“They probably had cooler ways of sandboarding, that’s for sure.” Claude pushes away from the vehicle then, stretching his arms up like a cat would and then hopping down. With a hand on his hip, he swivels at Dimitri and says lightly, “Hey, you sure you’re not gonna regret wasting your shot?” 

Dimitri nearly chokes on his drink. “My sho—s-sorry?” 

Claude’s head tilts a little in question and his eyes are innocent—but there’s a smirk at the corner of his lips that belies his purposeful jibe. “Your shot. At sandboarding. I mean, when else are you going to find sand dunes as fine as these?”

“Ah—yes, o-of course.” _Calm it, Blaiddyd._ He clears his throat. “I don't intend to waste my… shot, as you say. I’ll rejoin you all once I’ve cooled down sufficiently.” 

“Good to know, we’re really missing you out there,” Claude winks. “Better go help out before someone else gets their head stuck in the sand. See you in a bit, Dimitri!” 

With that, Dimitri is left feeling strangely none the cooler despite the two ice packs in his hands, thinking far too hard about his shot at something else entirely.

  
  


* * *

  
  


After sundown, they reach the designated camp where they’ll be spending the night. Their cars are parked next to the porta-potties located a little further from their main campsite, where three large tents are set up in a semi-circle formation around a giant campfire. Around this campfire are long, rectangular cushion-mattresses with red, black and white hand-sewn patterns on them, arranged to make one snake-like couch that Sylvain has claimed nearly a third of for himself.

This is where they are all sitting now, huddled together, face lit up by the glow of the campfire with hot drinks in their hands. The warmth is a welcome one now that the sun has long retired and the desert air has taken a biting quality to it. While everyone has accepted the gigantic shawls offered to them—Mercedes and Annette are sharing one now, apparently to make conservation of body heat even more efficient—Dimitri’s own lies unattended in his lap, neat and folded.

His body is _still_ tingling in all the places Claude has touched him. He feels like a silly love-struck schoolboy; their touches _were_ strictly for instructional purposes, even when Claude had held onto his waist to stabilise him and Sylvain had wolf-whistled behind them. He knows Sylvain was simply being his obnoxious self, and Ingrid told him just as much anyway, so Dimitri is doing his best to keep the phantom of Claude’s fingers out of his mind. Unfortunately, he is failing rather spectacularly.

One of their guides, Ignatz, who is a student at a local university, currently has the entire group rapt with attention with his story about the region’s ancient art and theatrical traditions despite his earlier bashfulness and hesitation. 

“Folk dancing, for many ancient tribes in this region, was not only a form of performance but a method of storytelling as well,” Ignatz explains, gesturing. “Of course, there's still a lot of folk dancing taking place in festivities. Sword-dancing, or _ardah_ , for example, is popular in the Gulf and is performed during many celebrations from national days to religious festivities. Sometimes with spoken poetry, too!” 

“Swords? What kind?” Felix quips, only to be silenced by a torrent of groaning. “The hell? I was just curious.”

“Actually, that's a really good question, Felix. They use all kinds of swords, the most traditional one being a _saif_ , but they sometimes use canes as well if the, uh, situation deems swords too dangerous to use as props.”

“Enough of the old stuff, Ignatz,” complains Hilda, their guide who's apparently meant to be in charge of food with Raphael, but seems to currently be taking a break just like everyone else. “Tell them about the _good_ stuff. Ooh, like belly-dancing!”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Ignatz smiles, excitement on his face as he adjusts his glasses. “In modern times, Arabic folk dancing still retains their storytelling qualities, especially those performed during the festival that takes place in the middle of Eid called _Garangaou_. Belly-dancing, the one Hilda is so excited about, is actually very interesting.”

“I've seen those! In movies only, though,” pouts Annette.

“Movies don't always depict them accurately. They're often, um, _glorified_ , to put it mildly, without much contextual background. It's an interesting dance form because mainstream media ties it to a lot of feminine stereotypes, but traditionally both men and women can be dancers. In ancient times, it's performed alongside poetry. Nowadays most performances happen either in social events, such as parties or weddings, or as performance art with only musicians playing instruments. The storytelling is done implicitly through various movements and outfit choices.”

“I like their outfits the _best_ ,” Hilda sighs. “All the flowy fabric and pretty sequins, and the _accessories!_ ”

“That sounds marvelous! Do you have pictures, Hilda?” Mercedes is leaning in closer, eyes bright just as they tend to be when she's learning about something new.

“I mean, I wouldn't be opposed to some lovely ladies modeling those outfits for us, either,” says Sylvain, much to the surprise of absolutely no one.

That is the extent of Dimitri's involvement in the discussions. While Ignatz's stories are indeed riveting, Dimitri can’t help but let his attention wander. He hasn’t seen Claude at all since they arrived at the campsite. Was he not meant to spend the night with the group? Surely if he'd meant to leave from the start, he would have said something. Not that he's _obligated_ to, but Claude seemed to truly enjoy talking to his friends about their lives, being so close in age, and their experiences growing up in such vastly different places. Dare he say Claude seems to have been enjoying conversations with _Dimitri_ , too, and would surely have wanted to part with a farewell?

His thoughts are interrupted when Leonie enters the foray, breaking everyone’s artistic stupor with, “Who’s up for some music?” followed by cheers from the audience and a small procession of tour guides behind her, carrying various percussion instruments and shouting like a bunch of over-excited kids at music camp.

And then—right there, Claude walks— _saunters—_ out, and the sight that greets him has Dimitri grasping the cushions beneath him. 

Claude is bare-chested, and low on his hips sit a pair of dark, loose trousers, framed by a sash that flows with his every movement, every careful step. Looped around his waist is a string of what seem to be coins or large sequins that catch the light of the campfire, glittering, and the same jewels adorn his neck and arms to accentuate his long, toned limbs. When Claude steps closer to the middle of the campfire, closer to the light, Dimitri realises his skin has taken on a sheen to it. There’s glitter splattered along his cheekbones, across his nose, as if the star gods themselves have painted constellations on his face, knowing that the grin Claude is now bearing would still outshine any celestial body.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough history lessons for tonight, Ignatz,” Claude drawls, laughing as he rests a hand on his hip. “I’m sure everyone would agree it’s about time we let loose. I don’t want this to be all about us guides, though, so why don’t we all stand up and have a good time?”

“Oh, Claude, you look _lovely_!” Annette jumps up and claps, an act of bravery that Dimitri wishes he himself possesses. 

“Ah, good to know. I was afraid you'd be disappointed that it's me you have to see this on.”

Sylvain's indignant _hey, I'm not complaining!_ is lost to Annette's enthusiastic exclamations. “It's beautiful! You must have worked so hard on it!”

“Actually, Hilda gets the credit for _this_ ,” he laughs, twirling on the spot and winking. “For once, she put in some long nights to make sure the outfit is… how did you put it? Splendid?”

“ _Spectacular_ ,” corrects Hilda, looking all too pleased with herself. “Of course I have to put my weight in! I wasn't about to let you dance in your ratty old t-shirt and shorts. If you're going to _perform_ , you better perform _art_.”

Ingrid lets out a gasp. “Are you a dancer, Claude?”

“Eh, I'm an amateur. But if it helps everyone have a good time, I'm willing to give it a shot.” He points at Leonie, carrying a myriad of drums, and says, “Leonie, hit it!” 

As everyone scrambles to their feet and takes a friend or guide’s hand—even _Dedue_ , who Dimitri has never seen so much as sway to music in his life—Dimitri feels himself frozen all over. Weakly, he rises to his feet, but can do little else than to look on as his friends start dancing to the succession of beats morphing into a tune. He shakes his head weakly when Ingrid casts him a doubtful look (even _she_ is tapping her feet to _something_ ) and takes a deep breath. He’s never been much of a dancer, but no one is expecting him to do much anyway, right?

“My friends! Tonight!” Claude is standing tall, and in the shadows he casts Dimitri sees a glimpse of Claude as a leader, marching his troops to battle. When he closes his eyes he hears the cries of battalions, Claude's self-assured instructions, and for a split second he sees the ghost of a creature's wings when Claude swings his hand to point upwards. “We celebrate the sky!”

And then he starts dancing. 

His movements are fluid, yet every snap of his hips and shoulders are precise, calculated—almost strategic. He is so confident. From the very tips of his fingers, to his torso, to the soles of his feet, every movement is deliberate—every grain of sand displaced by his step leads into the next curl of his foot and the swaying of his hips. When he raises his arms to the sky Dimitri imagines him holding a bow between his palms, golden, the arrow shining by the taut string just as brightly, but the vision melts away when his arms fall once more to his sides. The shadows cast by Claude's figure dance with him, enveloping his frame in darkness whenever he turns, cradling him among the light that illuminates him as though this were centre stage and he is the sole subject of the spotlight.

(Somewhere deep down in Dimitri's heart he knows that, once upon a time, this was true. That Claude was the centre of everything— _his_ everything—but how could that be?)

When the music slows, so do Claude’s movements, his hips swivelling to the downtrodden beat. From under his lashes—dark—Claude looks up to meet Dimitri’s gaze. 

Instead of obeying his natural reaction to look away, Dimitri forces himself to hold the gaze as Claude clearly intends. Claude tips his head back, eyes still trained on Dimitri, and runs a hand down his neck and torso—this is _definitely_ not part of the choreography, is it?—and all Dimitri can think about is the line of kissable skin that Claude’s own fingers are tracing— 

The music ends, and suddenly there isn’t enough air in the vast desert. Dimitri abruptly turns as everyone stops dancing, out of breath, and breaks into rambunctious applause.

“Excuse me,” Dimitri mumbles, before walking away into the barely-lit landscape just so he can blink away the images of Claude's form, burned soundly to the back of his eyelids.

  
  


* * *

“Beer?” 

Dimitri looks up. Claude is back in a t-shirt and shorts now, but there are still streaks of glitter on his face—under his eyes, across his nose, just below his bottom lip—and they reflect what little light there is in the night with each minute movement on his head. 

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there; close to where the cars are parked, away from the chatter and warmth of the campsite. While the cold is starting to become a little unbearable, Dimitri finds it necessary. Sobering. 

So yes, Dimitri can definitely use a cold drink.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the can from Claude’s hand as the man settles into a cross-legged seat next to him. 

There’s comfortable silence as they sip on their respective drinks, staring out into the rolling landscape of the desert, little more than massive silhouettes by now. It’s Claude who breaks it first. “You’re going to miss dinner if you stay out here any longer.”

“Oh, right.” When Dimitri peers over his shoulder at the campsite there is, indeed, a barbecue going, and everyone flitting to and fro to help prepare the meal. “Sorry, I did not mean to be rude. I just wanted to be alone for a little bit.” He moves to get up. “I’ll go and—“

“Hey, it’s alright, there are way too many hands on that deck anyway. We can stay here for a little bit—I need to catch my breath.”

With no small amount of relief, Dimitri sinks back down to the ground. “I feel the same way,” he admits as he settles next to Claude once more. 

After another pause, he jostles Dimitri’s shoulder with his own, but the movement is unlike Claude’s previous carefree motions—for once, Claude seems _nervous_. “Did you… well, did you not like the performance?”

“What? No, of course I loved it.” He thinks back to Claude’s illuminated form by the campfire, sweeping through the darkness. Not like it? Could he even hold such an opinion after what he'd seen? “It was incredible.” 

It’s strange to see the tension seep out of Claude’s shoulders. Dimitri didn't realise, until moments before, that it’d been present at all. “That’s good to know. You’re the last person I’d want getting upset over it.” 

Dimitri ignores the implications of _‘you’re the last person’_ to snag on a more urgent alarm. “Upset? What do you mean?”

“Well,” Claude ducks his head down. “Some folks expect pretty ladies to be doing the belly-dancing, you know.”

A hot spike of anger flares in Dimitri’s belly at the thought of anyone taking such a performance, for granted—or, worse, in distaste. His chest tightens just at the thought of it. Without thinking, he takes Claude’s wrist in his hand and meets the other’s surprised expression with a serious one of his own. “I am saying this sincerely,” he says slowly. “No one could have put on a more beautiful performance, Claude.” 

For a long moment, no words pass between them; only the sounds of their breaths, gradually shallower and shorter as Claude’s eyes trace Dimitri’s face. “Thank you,” he says after a while, the quietest Dimitri’s heard him all night. “That means a lot.” 

Suddenly conscious of the wrist in his grip, Dimitri gives him one last squeeze before letting go. “I am simply being honest.” 

“You know, Claude is my stage name.” Surprised by the admission, Dimitri lets out an alarmed noise. “Seriously! Back when I started taking general dancing lessons as a kid, I thought it would be fun to have two of me—but somehow, the nickname stuck and it’s what everyone calls me now. My birth name is Khalid.”

“Khalid,” Dimitri repeats, savouring the syllables in his mouth, though they don’t seem to roll off the same way it does on Claude’s tongue. And then, with startling realisation, he mutters, “I've heard that name before.” 

“It's not exactly uncommon, as far as Arabic names go,” laughs Claude.

“No, I mean…" But how is Dimitri supposed to explain that he's heard it pronounced the exact same way, in this exact same voice, attached to the very same face? He shakes his head. The beer must be getting to him. “It’s a beautiful name. Does it have a meaning?”

When Claude stays silent for a long time, Dimitri is afraid he’d crossed the line and means to take the question back when Claude’s gaze suddenly flits upwards. “Oh, woah.” 

Dimitri follows his line of gaze to the sky and not for the first time that night, feels the breath leave him in one fell swoop. The pitch black sky has made the stars adorning it all the more brilliant, stretching as far as the eye can see—Dimitri has to lean back, careful not to lose his balance, just to trace their path that seems endless. 

“Wow,” he can’t help but sigh, the breath rattling in his chest from the enormity, the grandeur of it all. 

Claude is on his back on the sand now, arms crossed behind to pillow his head as he looks up. Dimitri moves over slowly to join him. “Amazing, isn’t it? I think sometimes we get so caught up in what we’re doing down here that we forget there’s a whole world up there.” 

“Do you know a lot about stars?” 

Watching Claude look up at the sky like this, Dimitri feels a sense of calm that he hasn’t felt in a while, lapping at the shore of his consciousness. If only he could freeze time.

“Not really. I know just as much as anyone else, I’d say, but I did spend a lot of time staring at them as a kid. You?”

“I know nothing about them.” Dimitri runs a quick cost-and-benefit analysis in his mind before asking, “Would you… awfully mind if you talked about them to me? Unless you find the topic dull, of course—in which case we can talk about something else.”

“Don’t regret it once I’ve talked your ear off,” jokes Claude. “Hmm, let me see… Ah, there! I haven’t seen it in ages.”

If Dimitri is shuffling closer, it’s only to see the sky closer to Claude’s own perspective. “What is it?” 

“My favourite constellation.” And if Claude is leaning closer to him, Dimitri is sure it’s only to point the stars out better, following Dimitri’s own line of sight. “Lately we’ve been unlucky with slight cloudy cover on our previous excursions—but the stars are clear as anything tonight.” 

“It’s beautiful. What is it called?”

“I’ll tell you their Arabic names, and your homework's to find out what they’re commonly known as. How about that?” Claude looks so self-satisfied, like he’s come up with some clever little scheme, that Dimitri has to indulge him.

“I’ll take you up on the challenge.” 

“There’s no letting your guard down, is there?” 

Dimitri privately disagrees, because right here in this moment, sitting beside Claude under the pitch-black desert night sky, is the most vulnerable he’s been in a very, very long time. 

“Anyway, my favourite is that one, _Al-Asad._ It’s one of the biggest constellations you can see from here. And right there—“ Claude points a little to his left, “Right there is its brightest star, _Qalb Al-Asad_. Pretty, isn’t she?”

Claude's fingertips trace out one, two, three, several stars over and over in an ambiguous shape, and although Dimitri doesn't really understand the imagery, he thinks their light more than makes up for it. “Incredibly. What does it mean?”

Claude clicks his tongue. “I told you it was your homework to find out!” 

“I think it most appropriate that you teach me. Teachers do, after all, teach before they assign homework.” 

“Clever one, you.”

They share soft laughter together, and Dimitri silently marvels at the way they’ve fallen into easy banter like this—just the two of them, removed from their entire itinerary and forgetting that they’re anyone but Dimitri and Claude ( _Khalid_ ), two people learning about each other from scratch. 

“Do you speak fluently?” Dimitri asks. “Arabic, I mean.”

“One dialect of it, yeah, from my Dad's side of the family. But we’ve been here in the Gulf for so long that I’ve picked up a lot more.” Claude sighs. “I wish you could see my hometown, Dimitri. We’d go every summer! Rolling pastures, steppes. If the desert excites you this much…” 

“I’d love to visit one day.” It’s strange—Claude isn’t demanding, in any form, but Dimitri feels compelled to share. Craves for it, like he wants to slowly give pieces of himself to Claude, for whatever reason. “All my life, I haven’t had much chance to escape the city. The company needs me too urgently every day, ever since my father passed away and I was of age to take over operations. My friends here—they’re the only ones who have kept me sane, and this,” he gestures at the sky, “is a sight like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” 

“Wait. You’re their boss? They’re _co-workers_ ?” Claude sounds shocked by the admission. “We’ve had our fair share of company retreats, but you guys seem a _lot_ closer than just work buddies.”

Dimitri winces a little. “To put it simply, yes, but… it’s a little more complicated than that.” 

“Of course, I thought as much,” Claude hums.

“Ignatz mentioned that dancing is also a form of story-telling. When Claude acknowledges this with an _mm-hmm_ ,” Dimitri continues, “did your dance have a narrative to it?”

“Hmm. If you'd stuck around afterwards, you would've heard me explain, you know.” Dimitri knows Claude is only teasing, especially when the man pokes his side in jest, but he winces in regret all the same.

“I'm sorry. I'd still like to hear it, though, if you'd mind.

“It wasn't a story in the strict senses, but I was portraying forces of nature. First, the waves of the ocean, and the stars, stretching out across the sky. Then the sand drifting across the dunes in the wind and finally, back down to solid ground.”

“I can see that,” Dimitri runs through the images in his mind, cataloguing every point that he can now put meaning to for an age-long memory. “You portrayed them really well.”

“Ah, you're just full of praises tonight. Very sweet of you.”

Dimitri only answers with a laugh. “Thank you for sharing,” he then says, not knowing what else to do other than impart the gratitude he feels building up in him.

Claude chooses to answer with silence, before asking, “Can I let you in on a secret?” 

The question makes Dimitri chuckle; it’s not the first secret they’d be sharing, after all. “I will do my utmost to uphold it.” 

“I don’t talk about myself very often, you know, but—that’s the thing. You’re so _earnest_ all the time. It’s like there’s something about you that makes me feel as if… as if I’ve known you before. In another life.” Claude frowns, then barks out a laugh. “Does that sound silly?”

Something catches in Dimitri’s throat as he lets his gaze float down to Claude’s side profile. Poised, regal, but above all, familiar. “I feel the same. Perhaps it’s why I’m so drawn to—“ Dimitri hesitates. “—to you.”

When Claude says nothing, Dimitri thinks he probably shouldn’t have confessed _that_ part of his mind. But then Claude smiles and says, “It means immortal by the way. Khalid. Eternal, endless.”

 _Immortal_. And somehow, that’s what Dimitri feels like he can be at this moment by Claude’s side. Like the world can pass them by and they'd remain like this, side by side on their backs in the middle of a desert, marveling at the sky’s starry cloak thrown over them. 

“It suits you,” Dimitri says, quietly—and then louder, meaning every word of it. “Khalid. Immortal, endless… it suits you very much.” 

There's no time like the present, Dimitri knows, and with a spur of confidence—imbued, perhaps, by the brilliance of the stars—he blurts out, “I know… I know it might be forward of me to ask now,” Dimitri trains his eyes on the sky. “But when this is over, would it be okay for me to have your number?” 

Claude rolls over in the sand, bringing his face close to Dimitri’s so he can see, up-close, just how dazzling Claude’s smile can be. He reaches for Dimitri’s hand and clasps their fingers together, squeezing as if in promise.

“I thought you’d never ask.” 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Al-Asad_ : 'The Lion,' or the Leo constellation.  
>  _Qalb Al-Asad_ : 'The heart of the lion.' 
> 
> This is my first fe3h and dimiclaude fic (hopefully out of many more to come???) so I hope I haven't butchered their characterisation or backstories too much... I hope you've enjoyed it ♥ please give dimiclaude a lot of love!


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